The Idiot Box
by lieselmemingers
Summary: A collection of tender moments in front of the television.


_A/N: This is a just a collection of drabbles I wrote fairly quickly because I became fascinated by the dynamic of the television in Panem and the role it plays. Also, it was a chance to write some alternate POV's and fiddle around with time lines. _

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**The Idiot Box.**

A collection of moments in front of the television.

_Pairings: Katniss/Peeta, Gale/Katniss, Gale/Madge, Finnick/Annie, Mrs Everdeen/Mr Everdeen._

_Warnings: some strong language and references to sex._

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_**one.**_

Katniss Everdeen blames the television.

There's the rustle of skin and blankets, and the glaring light of some old cooking show that Peeta's watching, and she tugs the nearest cushion over her face to block out the sound and try to sink back into sleep. She should move; she should go to bed, but the day has been so hard that she can't find the strength to, and she needs him to carry her up the stairs with her heel in disrepair. Prim and her mother have long since gone to bed, and the family book sits open between them on the couch, forgotten for the blur of icing and sprinkles dancing on the screen.

A quick peek at Peeta's face shows a boy utterly engrossed. His cheekbones illuminated by the white light, his lips parted and moist, his hair shining.

_(Hey) _he pulls his eyes away at her words and turns to look at her. She sees the beginnings of peace; the end of the Games, at last. Perhaps. Maybe.

The start of a smile tugs at one corner of her mouth, and she finds his hand under the blankets, clings on for dear life; a _thank you_.

He smiles back, and drops a kiss between her eyebrows. He tugs the pillow from over her face and slips it more comfortably under her head. The television remains (frustratingly) on, and captures his attention again.

He is a slave to it.

_But then again_, she thinks a handful of weeks later, as President Snow plucks out the card that carries all of her worst nightmares; _aren't we all?_

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_**two.**_

Gale Hawthorne blames the television.

Well, if can call it that, because _fuck_ how big does the television need to be in a house of three? To say that the screen that sits in the Mayor's sitting room is big would be an understatement; it seems like the runt of the litter of the huge screens that sit outside in the square. Crisp edges, bright colour, glorious, horrific detail.

And Madge Undersee; a mouse in front of a lion as she sits on the floor next to him with her pale knees folded up to her chest, staring up as the little girl from Eleven gets a spear through her gut and Catnip's lament echoes through the arena (through the whole goddamn world, here's hoping). He's only ever heard Catnip sing under her breath when she thinks he can't hear.

But then they're flashing through the other highlights and damn it, he knows what's next.

The announcement that there can be two Victors from the same District; the brutal Cato brushing the girl from his District's hair back from her face to tend to a head wound in a rare moment of gentility, Katniss shouting out the Mellark kid's name in a fit of (_damn it Katniss, what are you doing?_)madness.

Peeta's whispering something awfully close to her face.

He's seen it earlier in the day, but it's no easier to swallow when Katniss' mouth finds his. Gale can't find the words, so he finds Madge. He finds her soft waist under her sweater and he finds her tongue with his own (_why don't you come to my house to watch the Games, Gale? We're both her friends. It seems…right.)_

Secretly, he agreed because he knew this would happen. He knew she wanted it to happen. And in the soft light that comes from the television, and the atrocities committed on the screen (he swears in must be the _biggest damn television_ from here to District Six), why should he resist? It'll be just like old times; when girls were just girls and lips were just lips and hands could go anywhere and Catnip was just a runt of a girl that tagged along with him to hunt.

Gale pulls away from the Mayor's daughter just in time to see Katniss' eyelashes catch on Peeta Mellark's cheek.

Who knew things could be twice as painful in technicolour?

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_**three.**_

Mrs Everdeen blames the television.

There's a chasm in her mind that she's fallen down and she can't climb back out. Mindless shows flicker back and forth and Katniss comes to spoon feed her every now and then, her twelve year old frame hunched and emaciated. She can't find it in herself to wonder where the food is coming from. Can't find it in herself to care. She's back; far back, in a place with life and love and the smell of coal dust on _his_ hands. Death can't find her if she hides. She can keep him alive, inside her.

And then, through the fog, she sees herself. Not metaphorically; literally. Herself, years ago. Highlights from old Games. Oh yes, it's Haymitch Abernathy's birthday; his Games will be shown. She wonders briefly why the Games are being shown in the middle of the night (wasn't there something everyone's forgotten about a flying axe and -)

Flicker, flash, blur; w_e need a new television, I should ask-_ No, he's gone.

The sob comes from her soul rather than her chest, and she hears Katniss stir in her bed; she's always ready to run, that little girl.

Maysilee Donner dies with her throat as mince down her shirt and Mrs Everdeen – finally – gets up from her chair.

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_**four**._

Finnick Odair blames the television.

There's a comforting smell about this motel room; the type he always seeks out in favour of the Capitol suites they offer. Silk sheets mean he's for sale. Starched linen means he's free for the night. But still, flicking through the television channels in search of something to pass the time until the bruises where the handcuffs that tied him to Sir Miston's bed last night fade, he wonders if motels really are freedom after all. He had expected to be somewhere else at eighteen. Eighteen years old (ha!); he feels five hundred.

He sees himself on screen, moaning his way through another conquest. The channel lets him watch sixty seconds before it asks for a generous donation in order to continue viewing. Finnick turns it off.

_The idiot's box_ they used to call it, Mags had told him once.

He thinks of Annie. He thinks of how when he makes love; _really_ makes love, he's as silent as the dead of night in District Four.

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**_five._**

Peeta Mellark blames the television.

The television and the straps that bind his wrists to a pair of impossibly cold armrests - and why are they hooking things into his eyelids? – and the latex gloved hands that smooth over his pulse and pierce him with a thick needle that sits under his skin. What next?

He half expects some Capitol propaganda video – w_ar, terrible war –_or the snakelike eyes of President Snow.

He doesn't know if it's a relief when he sees _her_ instead; the one face he's been dreaming about for days. The face he aches to touch. Her dark hair shining under the stage lights and she twirls, round and round, up and up into his heart. This cannot be punishment, surely?

The venom invades moments later.

(Now, Mr Mellark, we're kind enough to show you where you've been wrong about Katniss Everdeen – _damn he needs to blink with the fury of two raging suns but those damn hooks are keeping his eyes open and maybe If he cries they'll just think it's the air against his eyes yes that would be better _– so we ask that you pay close attention.)

A few hours later come the first hallucinations; Katniss on fire while he laughs, Katniss trying to shove a knife through his throat while he sleeps, Katniss, Katniss, Katniss…

_I love you_ _(so maybe I should say goodbye now)._

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_**six.**_

Coriolanus Snow blames the television.

(_Fire is catching _– buzz, hiss, flash, flash –)

It's a curious sensation to watch fire on a screen. You can half imagine that you feel the heat on your skin. But it is an illusion, a lie. The promise of something that can never be obtained will incite passion, yes, but in the end it will burn out. He thinks longingly of another direction taken; he thinks of Katniss Everdeen dying in the Games in those first few moments, and of the boy kneeling over her and weeping while she takes her last few blood soaked breaths. A path never taken; a path he longs for desperately. If only we could retrace, rewrite.

_(-and if we burn, you burn with us!_)

The idiot's box, indeed.

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_A/N: Thank you for reading; reviews are much appreciated!_


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